


A Break, A Pause

by notablyindigo



Series: It Has Its Costs [2]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, joanbell fest 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1907772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notablyindigo/pseuds/notablyindigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus returns to the 11th Precinct, with some help. (takes place during/shortly after 2x13)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Break, A Pause

**Author's Note:**

> joanbell fest day 5 prompts: moving day, windows, profiles  
> sort of vaguely fulfills Watson’s Woes prompt 5 (makes the music mute), if you define “music” as “watson’s voice” and “mute” as “awkward silence”

There had been the formal filing of his transfer paperwork; there had been the small goodbye function with his erstwhile colleagues from Demographics; and there had been the phone call to his mother to let her know that he was headed away from the “stop ‘n frisk” squad (as she so charmingly put it) and back to his old unit. Now all that’s left is for Marcus to actually make the move back to his desk at the precinct. 

Not like it’s going to be that hard, really. After all, he’d never truly settled into Demographics, had never brought so much as a coffee mug to the desk where he’d spent that interminable winter. But that wasn’t going to stop him from taking Joan up on her offer to help him pack his things. Even though the thought of working with Holmes again still manages to put something of a sour taste in his mouth, he has long since given up trying to pretend that he isn’t looking forward to working with Joan again. Even though they’d seen each other once in a while over these past months—for coffee or the occasional run—it wasn’t the same as tackling cases together. That, at least, is something to be glad about. Even if he’d just barely managed to pass his marksmanship test and earn back his gun. Babysteps, he tells himself. One thing at a time.

Marcus catches sight of her through the windows that make up the western wall of the fishbowl that is his department’s workspace and gets to his feet. In truth, he’s already packed most of the files he wants to take with him back to the 11th precinct, but as she approaches he makes a show of shuffling papers and putting them in various manilla folders. 

"Hey," she calls from a few feet away, hand raised in greeting. She looks good—better than anyone has the right to look when it’s nineteen degrees outside and sleeting. Somehow, in spite of the weather, she’s still wearing those high-heeled boots. It is, he thinks as she closes the distance between them, a miracle she hasn’t broken an ankle. Or both. 

"Hey," he replies, placing a folder into the cardboard box in front of him. Joan comes to a stop on the other side of the desk. 

"So, what needs doing?" she asks, and Marcus grins sheepishly.

"Well, actually, I’m pretty much done. Just got to put together a coupe more files, but…" He shrugs. "I guess there was less stuff to take than I thought there would be. Sorry for dragging you out here for nothing." 

"Not at all," Joan says, testing the weight of the half-filled box. "I needed to get out of the brownstone, anyway. Sherlock did some kind of experiment with glacial ammonia and now the whole house smells." She pulls up the mouse pad and examines it before placing it in alongside the files. Marcus finds himself absently studying the profile of her face, tracing the constellations of her freckles with his eyes. 

"Sounds like classic Holmes," he quips, fitting a lid onto thebox and hefting it into his arms. Joan blinks in surprise.

"Is that everything?" she asks, gesturing at the box. She reaches for it, attempting to carry it herself, but Marcus waves her off. 

"I’ve got it," he insists, pulling the box away from her.

"But your arm—" she begins, then stops short. Marcus feels that by now familiar tightening in the pit of his stomach.

"Marcus, I didn’t mean…" Joan’s fidgeting with the pendant on her necklace, the way she does sometimes when she’s nervous. He knows she didn’t mean it like that—didn’t mean to pity him—but it’s still a bitter pill to swallow.

"It’s okay, honestly I’m used to it. It’s fine," he says, trying to sound convincing. 

"No, it’s not," Joan argues. "I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…" She puts a hand on his shoulder. "Just let me know how I can help." 

"Well you can grab that," he says, nodding toward the desk where his nameplate is still sitting on the top right corner, "and you can Yelp a place for lunch." Joan laughs and pulls out her phone. 

"What’re you feeling like?" she asks, already scrolling through their options.

"Surprise me," he says. She usually does.


End file.
